Of shopping detectives and breading rice
by Soulreciever
Summary: It's coming up for four in the afternoon, he's sat in his snug little practice room staring at the text message he's composed and trying to flag just when he went completely and utterly insane.  slash,crackish,au,oc,spoilerific
1. Chapter 1

Lists.

1. Cabin fever.

T: Yep it's a brand new fic with a brand new set o' warnings (sort of): Slash, Crackish, ooc, AU, series one spoilers, possible angst down the line. I own only the plot the rest comes from the Pen of Sir Arthur and from the glorious modern verse canon that Mr Moffett and Mr Gatiss have crafted!

X

It's coming up for four in the afternoon, he's sat, in his snug little practice room, staring at the message he's just composed and trying to flag just when he went completely and utterly insane.

Because there was no way that sending someone the phrase '**if you buy more rice I SHALL kill you' **could be deemed normal_ even_ when said 'someone' was the utterly random, crazy and truly spectacular Sherlock Holmes.

The entire debacle had started a good two months previous with Sherlock offering to go shopping.

It'd come entirely out of the blue and been uttered with such a disinterested air that he'd felt his guard rise almost immediately. The wrong reaction, apparently, for he'd been afforded a long, lingering, look filled with part pity and part fascination before Sherlock had stated,

"I assure you that I am not conducting an experiment, John. You are of a currently limited mobility due to the cast on your leg and we begin to run low on the basic amenities. Thus it seems logical for me to offer my services."

It hadn't have seemed fair to be cynical about that statement, give the unique set of circumstances it was not entirely impossible to think that his flatmate has spontaneously discovered his more human nature.

It was also not entirely impossible to think that he might spontaneously sprout wings and begin flying about the flat.

Still an offer was an offer and the instant he'd realised that the milk supply was dwindling fast his body had begun to crave tea like never before.

"Right, fine, but you're getting a list." Because if nothing else he'd at least have something to refer back to as evidence should his flatmate return with, as was his current fear, an assortment of body parts and four pints of milk he'd bought because his subconscious had realised what would happen if he didn't.

He'd spent the next half an hour pretending to concentrate on a particularly convoluted episode of midsummer murders and attempting to convince his head that, amazing though he was, Sherlock really wasn't going to have sent him a text in the half a second since the last he checked his phone.

Indeed he makes himself so agitated that, when he hears the key in the latch, he momentarily forgets about his current condition and ends up having to hurriedly arrange himself in such a way that not even Sherlock Holmes himself would know he'd just collapsed himself over his own plaster cast.

Thankfully his flatmate had been so wrapped up in his own smug self satisfaction that he's graced with simply a curious raise of the eyebrows before he enquires,

"I know that you have an organisational system but haven't had the necessary time to study it so that I might meet it's every exacting standard. Would you care to give me some guidance, or would you rather I help you over so that you might pack it yourself?"

"No to talking you through it, nothing personal I just don't think I can give clear enough instructions to get things exactly where I want them. As to the other…thanks for the offer but I'd rather just ease my way over with my handy dandy crutches. Male pride and all that jazz."

Little more than the faintest roll of silk clad shoulders and then Sherlock's off into his room for some unknown Sherlocky reason that he'd had no want to think on too long.

He'd just gotten into a rhythm, might even have been humming some show tune to himself though it'd take torture for him to admit it, when he'd spotted it.

A bag of rice and not just any rice but the expensive stuff that he'd known couldn't be purchased from any of the stores within walking distance…a bag of rice he'd know wasn't anywhere on the list because he'd been going through a phase of hating the stuff and it was a proven fact that his flatmate existed simply on biscuits, coffee and nicotine.

He'd stared at the bag longer than was likely sane before catching himself, writing it off as a likely ingredient for some madcap experiment or another and returning to the task in hand.

Which is where, had the situation been somewhere closer to what defined normal within the walls of 221b, the whole thing should have ended. Sadly he'd basically been given what amounted to house arrest to his doctor while the cast was still in place and, inevitably, he'd begun to develop cabin fever.

Thus when, literally 24 hours later, he spots the packet out the corner of his eye, he decides to make a game of guessing if it's actually seen any form of use without actually ever touching it.

Somewhere in his draft box he still has the little list he'd started compiling after the third day of the game, the string of numbers and equations something that made little sense to him now but that'd been as the meaning of life and the universe at the time.

Of course somewhere in the back of his head he'd known how insane the whole thing was, had known that the very best course of action right now was to ring the doctor and plead for some form of compromise.

Still when, precisely a week after its appearance, the bag simply vanishes as though it'd never existed at all, he literally tares the flat apart trying to find where Sherlock's hidden it.

It'd been testament to how long he'd spent in the place of late that he'd been able to place it back together well enough that, upon his return, Sherlock had simply stated,

"I'd ask you not to extend your frustrated cleaning effort into my bedroom," before drifting into the kitchen in order to make tea.

His pride, the big, hulking, thing that it was, had stopped him just short of asking for explanation because, really, if Sherlock wasn't offering one that meant this had likely been some test or another, one that he'd apparently already failed and he seriously had no want to make things any worse.

So he'd started a conversation about his flatmates current case, aloud the sound of Sherlock's voice to wash over him and, yet again, put the entire thing behind him.

There are two bags in amongst the next lot of shopping, both of which disappear precisely a week afterwards as cleanly and precisely as the first.

By the time the cast comes off they're up in double digits yet still he has no bloody idea of just what's going on, can't ask because by that point doing as such would be admitting defeat and he knows that'd just make Sherlock even more of a handful.

He'd actually started to think that, actually, there was no real purpose…that the whole thing had just been Sherlock's way of keeping him as mentally active as possible and feeding the fire of his natural curiosity.

Had clung, desperately, to the happy thought that, if this were indeed the case, it'd all come to a close once his cast was off.

Sadly his renewed mobility had, apparently, been some form of trigger to his flatmate and suddenly he was finding bags of rice literally everywhere he went.

The breaking point had been the bag he'd found not an hour previously, balanced happily on top of his stethoscope case, which was, in turn, sat in the bottom draw of his desk.

The desk he _knew_ he'd locked last night because one could never be too careful when it came to even the most basic of medical equipment.

He'd typed the message in a fit of rage and hesitated in sending it as such because he'd had firsthand experience of the damage talking in haste could cause, then there'd been a sudden influx of late appointment patience and he'd basically forgotten about the matter until he'd gotten his phone out with the thought of warning Sherlock he'd likely be home late.

"You can always call it a day you know." It catches him entirely off guard and Sarah gives him an apologetic little smile before stating, "I did knock."

"Sorry, guess I was a little distracted."

"Mm, what's he done now?"

"Oh you know Sh…wait, how'd you know who I was texting?"

"Your face told me everything I needed to know."

"You've lost me."

She gives him the long, lingering, look that's always been her shorthanded version of an eye roll and that insights a little bitter sweet twinge in his head, because though it means he's at last forgiven its also a clear line.

Oh he doesn't regret pushing her a little away, he'd had longer than he'd care to really dwell on under the water of the Pool to pick apart every nuance of his emotional landscape and realise that he'd never quite care for her as deeply or truly as she cared for him, still…

"You're really picking up far too many of his bad habits, you know." She smiles, wide and comfortingly true at the look he throws her at that, before responding, "It's cute…a little hard to see, truth be known, but cute none the less."

Not this again.

Seriously, why was it that half of London was convinced that he and his flatmate were having hot, steamy, sex while the other was convinced they were basically only a drunken night away from doing as such?

Ok, sure, he'd admit that Sherlock was pretty easy on the eye and that, if nothing else, having Harry as a sister had got his head to a place that he could accept that gender meant diddly squat when it came to true, lasting, love, however…

"…_the rest is just transport."_ Of course he's not really been meeting his eye when he'd said it and yet something in the younger man's voice had made it very, very clear that he at least wanted to believe the words.

Also there was the ever reaching fact that Sherlock was a complete ass.

Oh it was certainly feasible that he couldn't help it, that it was down to his clearly stifled upbringing or something in the way the neurons in his brain were firing, however, when it came right down to it, he was still the single most infuriating person he'd ever had the misfortune to come into contact with.

He's taking the breath to tell Sarah just that, to push this whole thing back to wherever the heck it's born from and carry onto much more interesting topics, when he catches the unsent text message out of the bottom of his periphery vision.

Pride or no wouldn't a normal person have just sent that message? Or, if it comes to that, just asked about the damned rice in the first place?

Oh…

…no no no no no no no no no no no no no….

…he's bloody well fallen in love with him, hasn't he?

X

This whole thing spawned when I spotted a book about strange shopping lists and my eye caught 'if you buy more rice I shall kill you' scrawled across one of the lists featured on the cover! Next chapter likely next week, though no solid promises on that front!


	2. Chapter 2

2. War.

T: In which the OOC ramps pretty spectacularly but I've attempted to get around just why that is in story so hopefully you'll forgive me! I own only the (very flimsy) plot; everything else is the property of Sir Arthur and Mr's Moffett/Gatiss respectfully!

O

He's sat, brain fuzzed by shock, for precisely the time it takes Sarah to whip up a cup of tea so strong even his nana would likely have asked for sugar and, even then, he's barely lucid enough to actually drink the stuff.

Still it's hot and his head latches to the sensation as though it's his one tether of sanity, which is actually pretty accurate when he really thinks about it.

"I'm trying to think of a good way to skirt about the fact that I just inadvertently caused you to have a giant sexual revelation." Sarah remarks after what feels an entire eternity of silence, her voice down in that quite, non-confrontational tone used for wild animals or, in their case, patients one-step from an entire mental breakdown.

So he smiles a sarcastic sort of smile states, "I'm not quite at underpants on the head just yet, Sarah," before adding, "I'm also not in the midst of any form of revelation, love's love, after all."

"But?"

"Of all the bloody people in the god damn world why Sherlock god damn Holmes?"

She opens her mouth, likely to give over the age-old platitude of 'oh it can't be that bad can it?' before remembering just who they're talking about and giving up with a shrug of her shoulders.

"Right, my point and you know what's even worse it took this nonsense with the bloody rice to make me see it. Not the many questionable things I've done simply because he asked me, not that I'll literally drop everything to go help him and not even because I'd quite happily have died in that explosion if it'd meant he live, oh golly no. Geeze it's like he's got some form of bloody aura about him that makes everything in a square metre as strange as him."

"The nonsense with the…ehem…'bloody' rice?" She's trying not to laugh, he can hear it very clearly and it's not doing anything for his rising ire, still she's right he has sort of sidestepped the whole explanation thing.

So he takes another deep swig of the tea, lets the heat and that wonderfully bitter aftertaste linger in his mouth and then he gives over every gritty little detail.

She's flat out crying with silent mirth by the time he's done and has to take an apologetic minute before stating,

"Clearly he's trying to get your attention."

Of course he'd considered that as a possibility somewhere right at the start of this strange, strange, scenario and dismissed it pretty well straight out of hand because where was the logic? Because Sherlock didn't need to put effort into being captivating and he knew it, even played up to it sometimes when his ego was at it's most swollen.

Still Sarah's looking at him with that pointed expression again which means he's missing something and damn if just about had enough of subtext right about now…which apparently shows in a likely sour explanation for, but a moment later she's stating,

"Ah, right, plain and simple it is," before adding, "Like you said that explosion was the sort of thing to spark emotional revelations and so what if it actually did? What if it managed to make Sherlock actually stop and analyze his 'softer emotions'? What if he realised he cared for you, that you cared for him in return but that you'd not realised?"

"Right and he decides the best way to make me realise my affection is to either a)make me think I've gone utterly round the bend or b) get me good and mad? Sorry but even for Sherlock it's a bit of a stretch."

"Ah but that's because you're thinking like an adult. The way I see it he's probably had all the hormonal impulses shunted somewhere in his hindbrain where they weren't able to seep into his 'higher' brain functions and this revelation's breached that damn and caused a veritable flood."

"Reducing him to the emotional stability of a teenager?"

"Right, which means we need to look at this whole thing through teenaged eyes."

And not just teenaged eyes but teenaged Sherlock eyes...huh somehow he'd never really thought too much on just what his friend would have been like when he was younger…

For a moment his head can process only the suddenly vivid mental image of an impossibly scrawnier Sherlock who was all legs just that little bit too long for his still growing body and startlingly blue eyes filled with wisdom far beyond his years.

Still fantasising isn't getting him anywhere and, filing the mental image away for later, he enquires,

"Right and _where_ are you going with this?"

"Not knowing why he's been hiding the rice has been driving you up the wall but you can't ask him about it because you _know_ there's a hidden message to it somewhere and don't want to disappoint him. It's only rice though so why not ask? It's not as though there's going to be any form of really deep message to it, heck, given that it's Sherlock it's just as likely to be some form of social experiment, right?"

Oh.

Oh that absolute…

"John?" Worry, which means they've now basically gone through the whole spectrum of emotions in one little half hour, which is oddly amusing to the headset he's sort of drifted into, which bleeds into him giggling away to himself like an absolute loon and making her worry even more.

Still at the moment he's past the point of caring and, smiling a breezy, slightly manic, smile he states, "It's war," before polishing off his tea.

X

Somewhere in the dustier recesses of his hard drive is a list of those odd little things people occasionally state as absolute fact despite them clearly not being as such. Knowledge he does not want, that's taking up valuable space and yet that's he's given with enough regularity that deletion is actually the more illogical option.

So when, bent double over what looks as though it could well be at least two days worth of distraction, his ears begin to warm, he's able to state, "It seems as though someone is talking about me," with a swift, pointed, look in Anderson's direction.

It's more than a little unfair to keep bating him and, honestly, more than a little below him and yet there really is some form of deep, likely primordial, joy in seeing just what sort of reactions he can promote.

Today, for example, the wide, expressive, face twists up as though reacting to a particularly acidic taste and dark, dark, brows furrow down in the age old sign of displeasure, giving him an overall look of one lacking fibre in their diet.

"Can I get on with my job now? You know being as he's blatantly stalling for time?" Ah his `I'm attempting to appeal to your better nature` face is also particularly amusing and not in the least bit convincing, something Lestrade apparently agrees with for, arms folding up about him in clear defence, he enquires,

"Well?"

Take a breath, get back upright to optimise blood flow and then, "Frightened to death, that much clear by the expression on his face and yet by what? The dust on the curtains has not been disturbed for at least a week and, given their proximity to the windows, we can also say that they have also not been touched for this period of time and that, therefore, they were closed at the time. He was clearly overly obsessive about personal safety, which means no spare keys and certainly no duplicates, given that you had to force your way into the house that discounts the door. We're on bedrock here so no possible means of entry from under the floors and anyone entering from the chimney would have left some form of sooty imprint no matter the effort they put into attempting otherwise. There are no such imprints and thus we conclude that no one other than the victim was present at the time of death.

"We rule out suicide because no one, not even someone as low as to consider such a path, would choose to die in such a manner and though certain black market highs could cause this sort of death there's nothing else here that would indicate the history of substance abuse necessary to drive one to such extremes.

"So either a slow acting neurotoxin or something of the same delivered in some manner that would not require our murderer's immediate presence."

"Post mortem and the forensics?"

"The instant they're on your desk if not before."

"Ha, sure…ok, Anderson, it's all yours."

He lingers just long enough to get the look he knows is coming, the ones that's as much an adult equivalent of sticking your tongue out as one can manage and then drifts a long circle back to Baker's street.

One rout he glances again at his mobile and once more finds, infuriatingly, only yet another message from his brother on some apparent state emergency or another.

He knows John isn't stupid, at least as far as the normal definition of the word is concerned, knows beyond a shadow of doubt that the older man knows him at the heart of the matter of the rice and yet…

Of course it's more than possible that he's managed to make another .1% error in judgment and push the doctor past baffled annoyance into simple anger. However, if that was the case, the older man would have come to 'chew him a new ear hole' the very second he found the newest hiding spot.

So then either he's _still_ not angry enough for it to counterbalance his pride and get him onto the desired train of though or…

There is the unmistakable sent of curry in the hall and not just any curry but John's patia.

The doctor's particular take on the simple Indian starter contains the expected mix of all the most extreme tastes but with an extra little something that had, supposedly, been past down through many generations of Watson men and that served to make it utterly mouth watering.

It is, undeniably, his 'one weakness' outside of all things biscuity and the doctor has used this fact on more than one occasion when his inner case fasting has become more concern than infuriating habit.

The ever expanding 'John' subsection of his hard drive rolls out a particularly warm wave of hope, along with a smidge of anticipation and, smiling a little to himself, he all but bounds up the stairs.

He is greeted not with John's warm, warm, smile, nor with the older man's usual attempt at small talk, or even with the other's kind face, but rather with Sarah.

Sarah dressed in a manner he has heard described as 'to kill' and quite obviously put out by his return.

A date then…at least as far as she was concerned…which made no sense because 'three continents' or no John really wasn't the sort to lead anyone on and he'd been certain that…..

Oh.

Oh so it was like that was it?

Fair enough, Doctor Watson, if it was a war you wanted then it was a war you'd get!

O

T: Again hopefully I'll see you with a new chapter at some point next week and again I'll not make promises (not only am I not working with a buffer as is usual but I'm currently deep in the study of the many varied mysteries of the Japanese language…aka I have only a tiny amount of free time and no buffer means stall time thanks to mental blocks/spontaneously deciding I hate 2/3rds of where a chapter has gone and deleting it!)!


	3. Chapter 3

3. The best laid plans o' mice and men.

T: A slightly shorter chapter this week but I couldn't quite resist the cliff hanger! Apart from cautioning about said hanger I should warn that there are illusions to events in DEVILS splattered about this chapter. Apart from this everything else remains pretty well as is and I still own only the smallest portion of what you see!

X

The plan went as such:

Part one: let Sherlock see that he knew and then let the arrogant twat know that he wasn't just going to waltz right into his arms because of said knowledge…that he'd have to put some bloody effort in if he wanted any form of 'result'.

Part two: make Sherlock really, really, want to achieve said result by employing every last inch of the old 'Watson magic'.

Part three: Enjoy smug, warm, sensation of knowing you have at last bested Sherlock Holmes in something and also that he's, unequivocally, yours.

Part one had been simplicity itself to achieve thanks to Sherlock's massively inflated sense of self worth, because all it'd taken was a suggestion that he was even contemplating dating 'lesser' intelligences and the message had set home.

So he'd moved to part two, had dusted off all of his best 'moves' and been ridiculously pleased with how well they'd been working until suddenly his stupid head had got him thinking.

It was all a little too easy. Sherlock was, after all, more than a little talented when it came to mimicking 'normal' human behaviour and somewhat devious when he put his mind to it. Also, it wasn't as though he'd really been 'on the pull' since he'd gotten himself subscripted and his 'moves' were, therefore, more than a little bit past their prime.

Which meant Sherlock was luring him into a false sense of security.

Oh of course he could be over thinking it, Sara's idea that when it came to him Sherlock was currently little more than hormonal teenager was as much logical as it was flattering, after all and in that scenario he could practically do _anything_ to achieve the desired result.

But the idea was in his head now, a mental splinter that he couldn't stop worrying at and which had him taking even the smallest of things as proof that he was bang on the money.

And, as icing on the cake, there was a case to contend with.

It seemed fairly simple, at least from the little he'd been able to glean from Sherlock, however, given the shear amount of time the younger man was spending either holed up in his room, or somewhere out on the streets of London, that was clearly not the case.

A part of him was very, very, afraid that Lestrade or one of the other Yarders had managed to at last get a hold of Moriaty and that Sherlock had decided to hunt him on his own out of some misguided attempt to keep him safe.

Because why else would Sherlock not talk about the damned thing and be underplaying it so very much?

It wasn't as though Sherlock had any form of consulting detective/client confidentiality agreement…or at least if he did _he_ didn't know about it which was just as telling given the nature of some of the cases he not only been a part of but that Sherlock had painstakingly recounted to him.

It was possible that it was part of whatever cruel game Sherlock was playing with him now, however, surely even Sherlock would have realised how such intense secrecy would look after a while?

"God I'm driving myself insane!" Which is probably just about accurate now given that he's just declared that to an entirely empty room…you know what? Damn it all to hell, he's bloody well getting some answers even if it does mean admitting defeat doing as such!

So he texts '**you****win.****Now****what****the****hell****'****s****going****on?****' **Then his 3 o'clock finally makes an appearance and he's caught into the routine of ferreting out symptoms in order to make an accurate diagnosis.

It's 6 when he had chance to look at his phone again and thus he's more than a little surprised to find nothing outside of the message informing him of Harry's habitual afternoon rant.

Actually, scratch that, it's less 'surprised' and more 'worried out of his bloody mind' because if nothing else he _knows_ Sherlock would have sent some emoticon or another to swiftly express his self satisfaction at having gained the victory.

Something is very, very, wrong.

He's phoning Mycroft literally a heartbeat later, pulling on his coat and begging Sarah to cover what's left of his shift as he waits, not at all patiently, for a response.

He's in a cab, watching the meter run as they idle at the curb, when that familiar, well educated, voice at last breaks onto the line,

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Dr Watson?"

"Where is he?"

"Holed up in his room."

"You're sure?"

"You insult me, John."

"I'm sure you'll get over it." A beat then, "He's alone?"

"Quite alone….John, if something is…"He knows he'll likely live to regret cutting him off like that and yet, right now, he couldn't care less.

Right now all he wants to do is make sure Sherlock's in one piece.

So he cycles off the flat address to the cabbie, pays his hiked fee and all but tares his way up and into the flat.

It looks just as it had when he'd left it this morning with the addition of mug and a plate covered of biscuit crumbs amongst the various other pieces of detritus on the table.

There is also an odd smell in the air and a faint plume of smoke making its way from Sherlock's bedroom.

One wet towel pressed hard to his face, a bit of good old fashioned door ramming and he's dragging a very unconscious detective back out into the living room.

...his pulse is erratic and his eyes are moving so fast beneath his lids…not cocaine, because Sherlock knew well the consequences of going back down that road, but defiantly some form of hallucinogenic…

He sucks in a deep breath of air and then calls for an ambulance, all the while the clear thought of, _"__what__the__hell__have__you__gotten__yourself__into__this__time,__Sherlock?__" _cycling about his head.

X

T: Next chapter at some point next week (I've even started on it so I have confidence in this statement this time around!) and until then perhaps some form of constructive comment?


	4. Chapter 4

4. Exposision.

T: In which this reaches a natural sort of conclusion! A little extra nudge up for the slash rating, but otherwise I think we're good! I own nothing other than little chunks o' the plot.

X

Ah, he's in hospital…John's close by, likely making some sour expression or another thanks to Mycroft's recent visit.

Well at least now he had the means in which the murder had been committed...ugh and the beginnings of a particularly lengthy headache if the pressure at his temples was anything to go by…

…strange though…he'd been certain he'd diluted the solution past the point where it would cause anything other than a light drowsiness…there was always the annoyingly consistent 1% margin of error, however…

…however, he knows it's because he's been wrapped up in John again.

Somewhere at the genesis of this new…_obsession_…he'd made a silent promise to make certain it would not affect the quality of his lives work and yet he'd subconsciously known it an impossible task even then.

Because this wasn't a fascination built of some deep seated, yet entirely irrational, envy as the matter with Sebastian Wilkes, or even simply a matter of hormones as his brief fling with Victor…

No this was something else entirely.

Somewhere back in that same hazy point of 'before' when he'd been living a different life…ha, actually, no, scratch that…back when he'd been_pretending_to live he'd thought to simply cut John from his life.

Where was the harm, after all?

No matter what his traitor heart might have him believing the man was certainly not the fabled 'one in a million', indeed it would take but a matter of hours to find a handful of men and women with life stories that had culminated in personalities almost a precise mirror to the Dr's.

And yet.

In the end that hesitation, the indefinable something that had had him second guessing himself for the first and likely last time, had been what had clinched the entire affair, what had him clinging still to the attachment no matter how detrimental and dangerous it was proving for the both of them.

There was, after all, nothing he liked better than a good mystery.

Mmm, well as fun as that little mental diversion was perhaps it was best to get the inevitable scolding 'over and done with'…

O

So Sherlock had almost killed himself in pursuit of answers.

He knows, both from his….experience…at the pool, as well as some of the stories Lestrade has recounted since that it's not at all an isolated incident and yet the very second he'd gotten to the hospital he'd been confronted by a decidedly unhappy Mycroft.

Apparently he had 'disappointed' the elder Holmes and had allowed his priorities to become 'confused.'

Unfortunately the not so subtle subtext of 'your job is little more than distraction' had proved as trigger and they'd fallen into a shouting match…ah, that was, he'd shouted and Mycroft had responded with a calm, certain, control.

So likely he was either going to find his medical licence mysteriously revoked tomorrow morning, or that his name was on the counter terrorism list, or maybe even both.

Add to that the niggling sensation that, somehow, this really was his fault along with the revelation that there'd been no good reason whatsoever for him to be kept out of the case and you ended up with where his mood had been about a minute ago.

That'd been when he'd realised that Sherlock had, apparently, entirely forgotten his years of medical training and thus believe simulating unconsciousness an entirely logical plan.

Not a good day to be certain consulting detectives, all things told.

Still the little performance he gives of waking up a few minutes later is so perfectly understated that he lets the detective work it through to the end before enquiring,

"You remember that I'm a doctor, right?" In a vague sort of approximation of Mycroft's calm, yet entirely dangerous, voice.

Ok so Sherlock's going to be pretty well immune, there's too much power in the voice for it to be something that's been perfected over night, after all, which means the younger man's likely grown up hearing it, still that exposure's also going to mean he'll at least understand the level of 'pissed offness' behind it.

Indeed after a moment of genuine puzzlement (likely as Sherlock's brain spirals a hundred different possible trails of logic for the enquiry) he makes a haughty sort of face and responds,

"Of course…I knew that your character would mean such a ruse would give me a moment more to collect my thoughts."

Ha, as if he's buying that…still as fun as simply yelling at the bloody idiot would be he's pretty keen to get some form of answer out of him and, given that a slanging match is basically guaranteed to get Sherlock sticking his heals in, it's not in his best interest.

Not yet, at least.

So he makes some form of vague noise in the back of his throat and then off handily observes, "Maybe we could have avoided this if you'd just talked to me a little more."

"That seems highly unlikely, indeed if we use previous cases as basis, your involvement would have placed you in that room with me…reluctantly so, of course and yet still…"

"Ok, fine, so this isn't about your apparent death wish. This is about you getting me so bloody worked up that I half expected to come back to the flat today and find your dismembered corpse with a happy note something along the lines of 'you next, Dr,' pinned on it."

There's a genuine moment of utter incomprehension on Sherlock's face, which is good because at least it means he's not been doing this deliberately, then a flash of understanding and the quite enquiry of,

"You thought that I was fighting Moriaty?"

"Yes, I did."

"John…"

"Don't promise me things you'll not be able to keep to, Sherlock."

"Still you understand why."

Oh no, no, no, he's not letting him get away with that open ended, lame old, excuse of a confession, not after all the bloody work he's put into everything these last few weeks and certainly not after a scare like this.

So he folds his arms, empties his face as best he can, and states,

"I thought that I did and yet maybe I was wrong."

A familiar look filled with analysis and then a face he's never seen before…a face of uncertainty, of the anxiety that sensation often bring with it…

Then dexterous fingers are lifting a little in order that they might wrap about his own hand, their touch sparking an inferno about him despite their slight chill.

"John I…that is to say…" the words gutter away and, frowning, likely at his own sudden ineloquence, Sherlock takes a long, shuddering, breath before stating, "You are the heart of me."

Which is when he kisses him.

It's a messy sort of affair thanks to the angle and their respective unfamiliarity with this particular aspect their relationship, yet that only serves to make it all the more perfect.

Eventually they pull apart to gather air and he takes the chance to enquire,

"So, why rice of all things?"

X

T: Thank you everyone for sticking through me with this and a semi apology for that somewhat lame ending but the block daemon got me good for this last little bit of the tale!


End file.
